


The Replacement Hamster

by flawedamythyst



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:02:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft's first, and last, attempt at matchmaking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Replacement Hamster

John was indulging in his new favourite pastime when Mycroft came by to visit: sitting in his chair, staring into space, and rerunning one of his many treasured memories of Sherlock. Today was The Cluedo Incident. When Mycroft arrived, he'd just got to the part where Sherlock attempted to install CCTV in the library, John told him he couldn't do that, and the whole thing devolved into a row that was ended by Sherlock grabbing the board and fixing it to the wall with one hard stab from his pocket-knife.

Mycroft didn't knock, of course. He let himself in as if he owned the place, then gave John a considering look.

“John,” he said as a greeting. “I see you haven't moved since I last saw you.”

The last time he'd been by had been a week ago. He'd paid the rent, ignored John's objections to him paying the rent, made a snarky comment about John's jumper and then tried to get him to go and see his therapist again. John had glowered at him until he had sighed and left.

“I have moved,” said John in a voice that came out dry with disuse.

“Apologies,” said Mycroft. “I see you haven't moved further than 10.8 metres since I last saw you.”

John scowled, mentally measured the distance from his chair to Sherlock's bed, and gave up the argument. Why did the bastard always have to be right?

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Mycroft gave him a tight-lipped smile. “I am here in an effort to help you,” he said, then took a small metal box out of his pocket. He pressed a button and set it on the table.

John looked at it. A light was blinking on the top. “Great, thanks,” he said. “Flashing lights always make me feel so much better. You can go away now.”

Mycroft let out a sigh and sank down into a chair. Not Sherlock's chair – he'd learnt his lesson on that one the first time he'd come by to bother John. “We may have to wait a while. His punctuality is not renowned. I hope that you can refrain from making the wait too painful.”

John snorted. “Yeah, good luck with that.” God damn it, he'd been hoping Mycroft would piss off so he could get back to his memory. He still had his favourite part to go – both of them staring at the game board pinned to the wall for a moment before John said 'well, that showed it', and they both broke into giggles.

_Sherlock would have known how to get rid of Mycroft,_ he thought and then had a blinding moment of longing for Sherlock's presence. His heart clenched in his chest and he had to take calm, even breaths for a minute to get himself through it.

Mycroft watched him carefully. “John, I wish you would see that I am just trying to help,” he said.

John glared at him. “You've done enough,” he said, bitterness nearly choking him.

Before Mycroft could respond, there was a weird, pulsing, siren noise, and an old-fashioned police box appeared in the middle of the carpet.

John stared at it. “What the-?” he choked out, then glared at Mycroft. “Did you drug me?!”

“No,” said Mycroft, standing up.

The door of the police box opened and a man popped his head out. “Hello,” he said. “You rang?”

“Indeed,” said Mycroft, and held out his hand. “I am Mycroft Holmes. I work for the British Government.”

“Ah,” said the man, stepping out to shake Mycroft's hand. “Let me guess – Torchwood?”

Mycroft's mouth twisted. “No,” he said. “You might say that I am the one Torchwood report to.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “I thought they didn't report to anyone?”

“They like to think so,” agreed Mycroft. “Everyone needs funding, however.”

“Mycroft,” said John with exasperation, taking the time to stand up so that he was only the shortest person in the room by a few inches rather than a couple of feet. It was a bit of a struggle with his leg how it was now, but it was worth it. “What the hell is going on?”

“This is The Doctor,” introduced Mycroft. He turned to the man. “And this is Doctor John Watson.”

The Doctor gave him a nod. “Good to meet you,” he said. “Love the jumper-dressing gown combo. Very Twenty-Third Century.”

John had forgotten that he'd pulled Sherlock's dressing gown on over his clothes late last night, or very early this morning, depending on how you looked at it. For a moment he felt self-conscious, but he refused to let himself be baited on it. His grief was his own business. 

“ _The_ Doctor?” he repeated. “As in, the only one?”

The Doctor tipped his head to one side. “You could say the only one with my speciality.” He glanced around the room. “Oh, this is an interesting room,” he said, his gaze leaping from the skull to the Cluedo board to the smiley face. He prowled around for a moment, looking closely at a couple of things.

“Don't touch,” said John sharply when his hand came out towards something on the desk.

The Doctor froze, then turn around to give John an intense look. “Very interesting,” he said. “And very dusty. Which is also interesting.”

John felt his heart clench again. “Dust is eloquent,” he said, then had to stop and breath carefully for a moment or two.

The Doctor watched him with a look of compassion so strong that John could barely stand it. He turned back to Mycroft without saying anything though, to John's relief.

“Okay, Mr. Government Man,” he said. “Here I am. What did you call for? Alien invasion? Problems with the fabric of time? Fashion advice? That suit would look better with a bowtie.”

“Nothing nearly so drastic,” said Mycroft. “I had heard you were currently companionless, and thought I might offer you this chance to rectify that.”

Both of The Doctor's eyebrows raised to his hairline. “You want to hitch-hike?” he asked.

“Not me,” said Mycroft. “John.”

John looked up. “What?”

Mycroft ignored him. “You'll find that he is dependable in tight situations, has strong morals despite being well-accustomed to violence, and has a great deal of experience with saying 'that's brilliant' in an awestruck voice when presented with genius.”

“You- you're setting us up?” asked John with disbelief.

“Ah, there's been some mistake,” said The Doctor. “I'm not- I'm married!” he added quickly, as if he'd suddenly remembered it.

“John, The Doctor will be able to provide you with plenty of adventure and excitement,” said Mycroft. “It is-”

“No,” said John, in an explosion that was practically a shout. “No! Mycroft, you can't- God! This is such a Holmes response! You can't just replace Sherlock with some other crazy genius, as if he was a hamster! Grief doesn't work like that.”

“Look at yourself, John,” said Mycroft. “Just look. You haven't showered in days, you've been wearing the same clothes for a week and a half, although I must say Sherlock's dressing-gown is a new addition. You've left this flat precisely twice since the funeral and spoken only to Mrs. Hudson and myself, ignoring all other contact. Your leg is causing you pain again, your hand occasionally shakes, and you have had at least two panic attacks. Possibly three.”

All of that was true. John gritted his teeth. “And?” he asked. “I'm not your business, Mycroft. Why can't you just piss off and leave me alone?”

Mycroft let out a defeated breath. “John,” he said. “I cannot help Sherlock any more. Please let me help you. It's what he would have wanted.”

“What he would have wanted?” repeated John, his voice cracking. “What he _wanted_ was to throw himself off a building! He didn't give a damn about me, or any of us! He was-” He broke off, ducking his head and taking in vast, heaving breaths. Would this pain never leave him alone?

“Ah,” said The Doctor quietly. “If I could interject?” Both John and Mycroft turned to look at him. “You're talking about Sherlock Holmes, yes? The detective?”

John clenched his hands into fists. “If you're about to say he was a fraud,” he started in a warning voice.

“What? Oh no, no, god, no,” said The Doctor. “Of course he wasn't. He was a great man. Very well-known for at least three centuries, fading into more of a myth after that, but still familiar to all.”

“What?” asked John in disbelief.

The Doctor looked guilty. “Oh, that was probably a spoiler. Let's pretend I didn't say it, it never happened, we're all wiping it from our memories. Okay, good. Instead, let me just say that it's really not a good idea for John to come with me. He's needed here, or he will be, when- ah, when certain things happen.”

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. “You know what happens to him,” he said.

“I do,” said The Doctor. “And he doesn't come travelling with me, although I'm sure we'd have a great time.” He turned to John. “I'm a bit of a fan. Love your books.”

“My books,” repeated John. “I haven't-”

“Haven't you?” said The Doctor quickly. “Ah, forget I said that then. Although, you might want to buy a diary to keep track of your dates, just a suggestion.” He stepped backwards towards the box.

“Wait,” said Mycroft in a voice that expected to be obeyed. It wasn't.

“Sorry, got to be off,” said The Doctor. “Got a thing in the Crab Nebula to get to. Well, I say thing, more like a coup d'etat. If there's nothing threatening the human race here, I really should be off. Good to meet you both, and-” He looked at John with a sudden, serious expression that was at odds with his previous tone. “Stay in London, John Watson. Someone is coming back here who needs you.” He darted back inside his box and shut the door, and a moment later, the thing had disappeared again.

“Right,” said John. “Okay.” He looked at Mycroft. “Am I getting any explanation for that, or-?”

Mycroft picked the box up from the table, turned it off, and pocketed it again. “He's an alien time-traveller,” he said in a bland voice, as if alien time-travellers were as common as postmen. “He tends to save the planet at least once a year, usually around Christmas.”

John stared at him. “And you wanted me to go off with him?”

“I decided that anything would be better for you than staying locked up in this mausoleum,” said Mycroft, glancing around at the flat. “I am concerned for you, John.” He said the word 'concerned' as if it was something painful and unpleasant that wouldn't be allowed in a rational world.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” said John, then sank back down into his chair. “Time travel. Jesus Christ. Wait,” he said, realising what that meant. “So all that stuff about Sherlock being known centuries from now was true?”

Mycroft nodded. “Most likely.”

“Jesus Christ,” said John again.

“Not quite,” said Mycroft. “Although he has been known to resurrect, in a fashion.” He adjusted his jacket, then gave John a nod. “I should be going. I need to replace this device before it's discovered missing.”

“Right,” said John, still dazed by the whole thing. “Bye.”

Mycroft hesitated before he left. “John, this incident did not have the outcome I was hoping for, but I trust you will remember that I am willing to try anything to make this easier for you. Please do not hesitate to contact me if there is anything I can do.” 

John managed a nod in response and Mycroft let out a tiny sigh, then left.

John stayed where he was, staring at nothing but for once not thinking about Sherlock. _Someone is coming back here who needs you._ John had thought his days of being needed were over. It seemed they were just on hold for a bit.

He looked around, and it was as if he was seeing the flat for the first time since Sherlock's death. Christ, what a mess. If someone was going to turn up who needed him, he should make sure that he was ready for them. He glanced down at himself. Time for a shower and a change of clothes.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Replacement Hamster](https://archiveofourown.org/works/555684) by [Hananobira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hananobira/pseuds/Hananobira)




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